"Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. "No, no," rejoined Thames; "fly—or I will not answer for your safety. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. ‘What are the chances, do you think, of that thing being already cocked?’ ‘Probably not even loaded,’ suggested Hilary hopefully. Your uncle—our uncle is with him.
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